


don't let our best memories bring you sorrow

by winterveined



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterveined/pseuds/winterveined
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Except it feels <i>wrong</i>, except regret crawls under his skin, except he’s not sure of why this is happening, of how or when it all went wrong. There were plans and there were contracts, and there was an year. He could have done it in 2017. He’s not sure he can do it in 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't let our best memories bring you sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> GRACIAS IKER. GRACIAS CAPITAN.

If someone were to tell him that that would be his end, he would have laughed it off, brows raised high and his hands clasped together. If someone were to tell him that his departure was going to be silent, lonely, during break, he would have found it hilarious, a sort of sickening joke, nothing like his future, nothing like his reality.

Not in a thousand years could Iker have predicted that this would be his life, sitting on the empty Bernabeu goal, hands intertwined and on top of his lap and a lump on his throat that just keeps on growing. His eyes are closed and his back leaned against the post, and he knows he’s done the right thing. (Except it feels _wrong_ , except regret crawls under his skin, except he’s not sure of why this is happening, of how or when it all went wrong. There were plans and there were contracts, and there was an year. He could have done it in 2017. He’s not sure he can do it in 2015.)

The halls of the Bernabeu are filled with memorabilia. From balls to jersey to gloves. From trophies to flags. Each heavy with meaning, with memories that together carved the name Real Madrid. To how many of those did he contributed? Is it fair that this how he leaves, that there are people celebrating? There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, one that he can’t make go away.

Iker wishes he had a last game, a last chance to prove himself worthy of the team. He wouldn’t try to go back, what’s done is done, a page in history. He’d try to show his love, prove that he bleeds and breathes white, that he is a Madridista before he is anything else. He wishes he could have a proper goodbye. He wishes he could hear the Bernabeu chanting his name once more, chanting Como No Te Voy a Querer from the top of their lungs. He wishes, wishes, wishes.

The news will come out soon, and he enjoys the peace that secrecy brings him. He enjoys the silence on his phone, he enjoys the green grass and white lines, and the seats, and the air. He enjoys the place that he called home for twenty-five years, and enjoys it while it lasts.

He’ll meet with journalists on the 12th, he has even written a speech. He’ll say his goodbye and that will be it. Years of loyalty and love and blood and soul thrown away like this: a sign, a few words. Journalists,  not fans. A room, not the stadium to which he gave everything that he has, every single cell of his body. Iker feels as if he shouldn’t be angry, but he is anyway. Each time he thinks about it he tastes ash, a wretched, treacherous taste on the tip of his tongue. He wants to make it go away, but he can’t.

Iker gets up, lips pressed against one another as he looks at the Bernabeu. He memorizes the elevations of the grass, the smell of the air and the color of the seats. He memorizes its grandness, and pretends that there are cheers for him. Pretends that the tears aren’t only his, and the pain he’s feeling isn’t his alone.

There’s a smile on his lips as he looks away, a bittersweet arch of the corner of his lips.

He calls Sergio on his way out. He deserves to know it before everyone else does. He deserves to know that he’ll be the new Captain, that they won’t see each other as often anymore. That there will be miles and miles separating them, and a border.

**

The cafe they agree to meet is one his favourites in Madrid, away and small, with white walls and wooden tables. He goes there since he can remember existing, and it brings a warm feeling to him. It feels right (actually, it feels appropriate. Iker doubts anything can feel right at this moment). They take a table on the furthest corner, hidden from prying and curious eyes.  

“What do you think of Porto?” Iker asks once their orders arrive, eyes fixed on his cappuccino, far away from Sergio’s gaze. He can’t bear to look at him, not yet.

“Porto as in the football team? They’re alright. Not as good as us, but—Why are you asking me that?” Sergio says, and Iker swallows past the first lump.

“They made an offer.” He answers, and Sergio snorts. Iker looks at him, slowly lifting his head to meet the other’s eyes, to meet with the smile on his lips. He swallows past another lump. “I accepted it.”

Sergio laughs, and then he doesn’t anymore. He laughs until he sees the sadness on Iker’s eyes, until the smile that is on his lips doesn’t mirror itself on Iker’s lips. He laughs until he doesn’t, until his brows furrow and he tilts his head, until a mixture of confusion and sadness and fear settles on his eyes.

He asks Iker why and all Iker can do is shrug. He tells Iker of his contract, and Iker nods, but doesn’t say anything. He asks him why again, and demands an answer. Iker tells him that it’s for the best, and he falls silent. They both fall silent, and the air around them feels heavier than the weight of the entire world.

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Sergio asks, finally, and Iker isn’t sure of the answer himself. At first it felt right, like he was finally doing what everyone else wanted, as if he was doing a favour.

“I’m doing what I can do. We’re not in a good place, and part of it is my fault. I’m taking the responsibility. I’m doing what I should have done a long time.” Iker says, when he should have answered ‘I’m sacrificing my own happiness for them’. A martyr for Real Madrid.

“You can’t actually believe that.” Sergio says, and Iker does nothing but look down, his empty mug being a kinder sight than the man’s piercing eyes. He wants Sergio to scream at him, to tell him that he’s stupid, that he’s making a mistake. He wants Sergio to talk him out of it, as he’s done so many times before. He wants Sergio to try, even though he won’t succeed. He wants all of that, but all he gets is silence and his teary eyes staring at him, never once stopping.

“I do.”

**

He’s sitting on the bleachers of the Bernabeu, hands resting on his knees as he looks at it for one final time. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t, grip tightening on his knee as he bites the inside of his cheek and presses his lips together. This is okay.

“I can’t do this without you.” Sergio says, taking the seat by his side. Iker looks at him for a second too long, head tilted to the side and brows furrowed. Sergio adds “Sara told me you’d be here. I can’t do this without you.”

“Sese…”

“No, listen. I can’t. None of us can. You’ve always been there, you’ve always been—Iker, you can’t—” Iker hears his words and tastes salt, all of his efforts gone in vain. “You’re the captain. You’re everything that Real Madrid stands for. You’re it. We can’t do it without you, there’s no way that it will work. You can’t give up like this. Iker—”

“This is harder for me than it looks. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Real Madrid is everything, Real Madrid has always been everything, and I need to go. I need to put an end to what Mourinho started. It’s for the best, Nene, I swear—”   

“You can’t—”

“I’ll be in Portugal. It’s not that far. You won’t even notice the difference.”

Sergio presses his lips against Iker’s. It’s a soft, sweet kiss, but it tastes wrong. It tastes like salt and ash. It tastes like defeat, and it tastes like goodbye.

“I will, though. We all will. Nothing will ever be the same, not without you.”

**Author's Note:**

> constructive criticism & comments are always welcomed.


End file.
